


White Flowers

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Fantasy Sex, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back home after a tour, Jos wants nothing more than to sleep. His neighbours have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> For my dearest Maidenover. As promised an era ago...

It feels good to bed back in his own bed. Able to forget every dropped catch, every bye he couldn’t chase and every wicket he lost. They had won the series regardless so he feels ever more ready to relax. Jos had gotten home, stepped immediately into a long shower then indulged in a takeaway. A good evening. The way he’d like to spend every one, lounging around in his underwear without fretting over teammates bashing on his door, falling _through_ the door and grinning as they hold out a video game or DVD.

The silence is simply divine. Jos rolls over, arms spread wide and fingers curling around the very edges of the mattress. No Alex muttering from the foot of the bed and no Eoin passed out naked to his left. Just him and the cool bedsheets that warm quickly against his bare skin. It’s enough to relax, but not really enough for him to drift off.

Jet lag is cruel like that.

Jos sighs into the pillow before turning his head to the right. City lights dance through the curtains, so different to the semi-rural Taunton suburbs. But he won’t get any sleep if he doesn’t _try_ to. He slides his eyes shut and readjusts the angle of his head so he stands less of a chance waking up with a sore neck.

No sooner than Jos lets out a long, _try to relax_ , breath does a door slam from the flat next door. That’s one thing he’s come to hate about this place. The couple next door seem to be at each other’s throats almost constantly. Once he had laughed to think that it is a perfect situation – he’d lose no sleep when he’s on tour, with squabbles and shouting coming from all angles and sometimes _inside_ his room – having gotten used to it at home.

His eyebrows furrow when he instead hears laughing through the thin walls and deep mutters he can’t discern. But he’s not interested. Really not interested in other peoples’ lives and eavesdropping.

But whatever it is they’re doing, it stops and for a while it’s beautifully silent again. He smiles wistfully and draws his arms up, creating a little nest for his head and enough room that he can breathe with his forehead against the pillow. Cool air nibbles at his shoulders but he’s too lazy to move and pull the duvet up.

 And then the moaning starts. Just quiet at start, but the walls conceal no sound. The lilting voice of a woman is something he hasn’t heard for a while and like a song he doesn’t quite know but remembers, it’s virtually impossible to tune her out. Literally impossible when she gets louder.

Jos groans, lifting his head only the slightest amount to feebly head butt his pillow. The fact he can’t hear her partner both confuses and intrigues him. Maybe it’s just Eoin rubbing off on him. The redhead is often _fascinated_ with other people’s lives and spends half of his own making un-informed observations and muttering assumptions. His thoughts even take on a slight Irish inflection as he wonders if his neighbour is pleasing herself or if her partner is.

And he hates how Eoin is experienced enough to always manage to describe his thoughts in great detail, because it’s all that Jos can now see. The colours dancing underneath his eyelids have forged into faces. It’s either a blessing or a curse that he’s never actually _seen_ these neighbours. But instead he can put his own stamp upon them, like some weird fantasy.

And if the man has dark copper hair then he stubborn refuses to notice. But Jos _does_ notice the heat pooling in the depth of his stomach; the tingling and discomfort of his position. The _itch_ for what he hasn’t had in a while. Groaning with more frustration, he shifts his hips restlessly as his cock starts to fill and grow.

He’s not like that… he barely even watches porn (being with someone like Morgan means he doesn’t _have_ to even if he wanted). He’s more than used to all sorts of noises around him from spending half his life around young men and in and out of hotels. Yet there’s something in the way that woman moans that reminds him of _pleasure_. His own pleasure. The reckless, shameless pleasure he’s much too shy to surrender to on tour, ever conscious of those around him. But Eoin always has the uncanny ability to render him down to nothing but a mess of wanton fingers and shallow breaths. It’s been almost a week since that night they won.

Jos rubs his face furiously into the soft white cotton pillowcase, as if to scrub his thoughts from his mind. He _really_ needs to sleep. But the couple obviously have no such intentions. As that voice continues to whine and choke on enjoyment, Jos helplessly finds himself thinking back those days ago, to the rasp of stubble against his thighs and Eoin’s pale hands knowing exactly where to touch. It’s fatal because his erection is full and will be ignored no longer. Wriggling does nothing and his hands betray him, hurried pushing his boxers down his legs.

His hips start to move to a rhythm he doesn’t consciously set, dragging the underside of his cock against the bedsheets. Every imperfection of the cotton, and every stitch of the mattress underneath it are like the irregularities of calluses, familiar and pleasing. When he thinks like that, it’s easy to forget where he is; what he’s doing.

With a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Jos chuckles at himself. He’d probably be alright – awkward, listening to next door, but alright – if only he didn’t have such a licentious lover who parades into his thoughts with the same demanding finesse as he parades into his room, mostly naked or naked pretty soon afterwards.

The sheets have warmed around him since he came to bed; the heat soon builds further yet it never quite becomes uncomfortable. He’s more than used to another body on his back and misses that feeling. He cranes his neck, sliding one arm under the pillow in order to lift himself to get better leverage. Jos bites his lip, allowing his whole body to move. It doesn’t quite match the rhythm from the other side of the wall and he is desperate to keep quiet. The last thing he needs is to be publicly labelled some sort of pervert. The fun the team would have with that…

The fluid motion is pleasant, but it’s awkward in his position. Jos’ imagination either isn’t good enough or simply not up to the task to make believe he’s not alone. Nothing can quite substitute hands on his waist, a cock against his backside and a prickly chin at the nape of his neck. He definitely can’t imagine a body below him; the way Eoin keens and writhes. The mattress is too flat, too barren of something to grasp. In growing frustration, rubbing himself against the sheets isn’t enough anymore. Maybe some other time when he’s just teasing himself. Definitely some other time when he’s teasing Eoin.

He rolls over and settles heavily onto his back. As he kicks his boxers completely off his legs, Jos stares up at the shadow-cast ceiling, rolling his eyes as he finally hears the deep moan of the man next door. Eoin’s only ever that quiet when he’s got a mouthful of cock. He smirks, biting his bottom lip. It’s easy to imagine that… impossible to replicate with the Irishman’s hums and groans and omnipresent hands, but… easy to imagine those lips wrapped around him wet and red. He had once told Eoin that he looks his best with hollow cheeks.

Jos slides his hand across from his hip, just ghosting his stomach like Eoin would often kiss down from his mouth. Completely hairless skin is smooth under his palm, making him smile to himself, indulging in a way he never really gets to. He’s a vain creature at heart – not as much as _some_ he knows – but he still loves the feel of himself; the physical beauty others remind him of. Eoin’s almost completely dusted with copper, which is just fine for him. Jos is used to that coarseness and enjoys it in a way. Nothing about sex with Eoin is smooth and feminine. But the Irishman adores how he maintains himself, spending so much time just caressing and kissing and rubbing against him and the extended foreplay only makes their sex that little bit better. Jos still thinks that having no barrier of his own hair increases his own sensitivity. He’s never really experimented with anyone else before but it’s a more gratifying thought than giving Eoin all the credit.

He shivers under the caress of his fingertips, drawing whimsical lines around his cock. Jos bites his lip when his hips jerk upwards.  The need for pleasure is there but has not quite overcome him yet. If there’s one thing Morgan’s taught him, it’s that patience is not only a virtue, it’s a necessity. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule but Jos realises that if he rushes this he won’t feel as content and probably incredibly disgusted in himself. Taking his time makes this more about him and his fantasy than jerking off to the couple next door.

Eoin has times when all he’ll do is touch. He’ll tickle places that Jos never thought were ticklish; spend minutes just kissing and nuzzling – or biting, depending on how far along they are – and how he’d roll him over, making sure every inch of him feels as appreciated as any other. Things like that assure Jos that this is no substitute. It’s just a reminiscence, like trying to cook a dish from a holiday… it can never be exactly replicated, but it’s enough to satisfy until the next trip.

Drawing his legs up, Jos twists his ankles so his feet are less likely to slide back down. He’ll be able to rock into his hand more easily. He remembers how Eoin once bent over him, with his hands still under his knees, keeping them bent, to say how good he looks on his back and the wider his legs are spread the better. That had been the time when the redhead had kissed him, surprisingly softly and then sunk his cock in so smooth and deeply that Jos had pulled out of the kiss to moan in a way he never knew he could because he never knew it could _feel_ so good.

Jos can’t replicate that. He doesn’t have any toys and he hasn’t prepared for it anyway. Instead, he wraps his fingers around the tip of his length; using the slickness of his own arousal and the creases of the bent fingers to recall what it is to have Eoin above him.  The puckered muscle that throbs around his head, almost more eager to take than he is to give. The Irishman had broken the kiss they shared and, sitting up with his fingers rubbing circles into Jos’ nipples, pushed himself down. The sound Eoin had made, like a guttural sigh of such potent relief, Jos imagines as he slides his fist down around his shaft.

When the woman’s moans grow louder still, Jos finds them unavoidable. Yet they are shameless and honest in the same way that Eoin’s are. There’s not guilt or self-consciousness, no hollow flattery that only passes in the heat of the moment. When Eoin swears it’s because he’s being made to and when he groans how good it is, he means it. Jos thrusts up into his clenched fist. He can make it as tight as his lover’s body, but not the same texture nor the heat or the slickness. He can twist the moans he hears in his head and gasps when he finds it all surprisingly vivid. Head back in the pillows with his eyes screwed shut, that white skin is simply magnificent in the city lights. It highlights every bone and muscle, shadows distort as the body contorts and tenses.

Jos wishes he could imagine the weight upon him; the thighs that hug tight to his sides and encourage him into constant movement. When Eoin’s on top he might dictate pace and depth, but he never once lets Jos lay back and do nothing. They work together for their release. Jos groans breathlessly, truly wanting nothing more than the redhead to be here now.

He tries to not let that thought consume him and ruin this. If Eoin were to find out (which he probably would as Jos isn’t the best of liars) he would not be pleased. Definitely gratified that he had been so missed, but to know he had been so detrimental to Jos’ satisfaction… most certainly _not_ pleased. Eoin would make up for it though. In every way he knows.

Jos grins, biting into his bottom lip as he thinks of just _how_. That image of Eoin returns and every detail is crisp down to the red-lipped smirk upon that face. He fists his left hand in the sheets, frustrated, excited and needy. Even with his legs raised, he can’t quite get the movement he seeks. It’s physically no different to what it would be even with Eoin, but thrusts up into nothing but his fist and the air relieve none of the tension that builds in his gut.

Rolling onto his front, Jos remembers how they change position together. Sometimes it’s slow and fluid, others they nigh-on throw each other around, grasping and groaning. Jos imagines sinking deep into Eoin and keeping him close as he uses nothing but his weight to topple him over. The redhead’s legs remain tight to him; maybe even twisting until Jos feels ankles digging into the small of his back, urging him into ever-harder thrusts. He adjusts his position, fist in the pillows as he tugs at his cock between his kneeling legs. This is just perfect. The lack of heat from another body doesn’t register in the ecstasy of his fantasy.

The moaning next door has stopped, but Jos doesn’t really notice. The gasps and groans he produces are muffled by the pillow he presses his face into. The blue of Eoin’s eyes is all but burned into Jos’ mind. The fire in them as they stared so deeply into each other, almost goading the other into coming first. The way Jos’ on breath heats the fabric, blowing back to himself is like Eoin’s there and Jos frantically pumps his hips downwards. He tightens his fist, remembering how the Irishman’s eyes roll back and he swears and moans his name, knowing he’s lost the game.

Jos jerks himself like Eoin convulses – rough, irregular and vice-tight – thrusting with all the strength he has, just as the redhead so often demands him to. And just like that, he doesn’t last for a minute longer. He finds himself moaning Eoin’s name as he comes. The sudden slickness between his fingers feels fantastic as he strokes himself through the orgasm until he can’t bear any more sensation.

He slumps into the mattress, legs sliding flat and releases a long and heavy breath. The mess he’s made needs to be cleaned up, his common sense tells him so, but in his satisfaction, Jos only manages to reach blindly to the bedside table for a tissue. After wiping his fingers and cock clean of the worst of it, he casts the tissue away and rolls onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling, still grinning to himself and absently lamenting to lack of arms and legs intertwined with his, or Eoin’s stubbly jaw nuzzling into his shoulder like a replete feline. It’s almost amusing, recalling the very things he had been thinking when he first came to bed.

He’s gotten so used to such things over the last few weeks of the tour. The more he recalls those memories, and all the silly things they’d mumble and mutter to each other, the more he feels himself truly relax. All tension and exhaustion has worked from his muscles. Sleep finally settles in and he lets it.


End file.
